


Ill-gotten

by volnaib



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, everyone dies, spelling mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volnaib/pseuds/volnaib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin survived the Fall of Gondolin and got Idril for himself. But there always is this thing called Fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill-gotten

**Author's Note:**

> There was a day when I wanted to read some angsty Maeglin/Idril stuff, and I stumbled upon a fic where Idril’s portrayal was out-of-canon, and she was in fact – forgive me if this is as inappropriate a word as the one which I initially intended to use here – salacious. So my hand slipped– er, I wrote an angsty thing myself.

The door creaked open. There formed no knot in her stomach as she heard the sound; yet she was not surprised by the absence of the expected feeling. Too many surprises for one day have left her lying on bed, too weary to fight, too hateful to weep. Approaching footsteps were followed by a hoarse whisper: “Itarillë”. She gave no answer, and he sat near, behind her back. A few moments of silence, and he spoke again: “It is over.” Then, more softly: “But you are here, safe and sound. I swear, no one will ever hurt you anymore.”

Her lips twisted, and though he could not have seen it, a sudden shiver went down his spine; she felt it, though she could not have seen it either.

“Indeed no one will hurt me anymore; for the grieves I am suffering have turned my heart to be as cold as stone, and nothing will ever be able to make me hurt more than I already do. All of my family is dead…”

“I am your family now, Princess.”

“…and it was you who killed them.”

She finally turned her head to see the look on his face, and raised herself on her elbow; he appeared to be in a much more miserable condition than she had imagined. His skin was very pale, covered with mud, bruises and bloodstains; his clothes haggard and covered with ash; his hair wet and tangled; his eyes anxious – and weary. This weariness had vanished with her last words, superseded by anguish: “I did not! Not all of them, not on purpose…” Idril laid herself where she had been, turning her back on him again.

“My Lady, listen to me, I beg you… The King, he always treated me well…”

“And you paid him with treason, by bringing ruin upon his realm, delivering death upon him and slavery upon his daughter,” she said quietly, her voice nonchalant.

“You are no slave of mine, Itarillë,” he answered eagerly. “Nor mine nor anyone else’s. Nor ever will you be one; this I swear.”

She closed her eyes.

“I care not for what you swear, or to whom you do so; you are the King now, I deem, for that is what He promised you, the reason why you had made your decision – and do not try to silence me now! – so enjoy your new-found kingdom, o Ruler of the Ruins, and savor the booty you gained here. Do what you came here for, for I can see that neither of us will breathe when the Sun comes.”

After several heartbeats which felt like half an Age, she heard him whisper helplessly, “My love.” She could not tell whether the shift of cloth on her shoulder under his hand was a futile try to undress her or to comfort her, nor did she care much; then there was a sob, and he fell weeping, cringing beside her on the bed. Shuddering, with a lump in the throat, he told her everything: how he hated Tuor and wanted to behold his death; how his struggle for power and a hidden wish to overthrow Turgon were in existence only because he knew that otherwise he would never be let to have Idril for himself; how he tried to hide these thoughts from everyone, and first of all, from his own consciousness; how he almost succeeded, turning his mind to delving and smithing, taking delight in it. How he was captured, and stood before the Black Throne, unable to run away from this hideous stare, and knew that the only thing that he ever wished for was so near yet beyond the reach of his grasp, taken away forever, but could still be gained – if only he was willing to take a step. How he betrayed almost everything he knew of the Hidden City to the Enemy. How he was filled with joy when he saw the base mortal fall from the Wall. How his heart sunk down to his stomach for the first time when he saw the offspring of his most hated one and his most beloved one fly off the same way; and the second time when the Tower collapsed.

It felt unbearably sickening, for his words and his tears were sincere. And it was all for nothing now, too late to do anything; he alone had known of the storm gathering over Gondolin from the very beginning, and he could have betrayed this knowledge to her if not Turgon the King himself before the hosts of Morgoth came. Instead, here he lied now, beside her, hating himself for the deeds of his own that couldn’t be undone.

Some time later, when he stayed his tears, he stood up, went to her side of the bed and knelt before her, touching her hand gently. “I swore that no one will hurt you. I will take you away from here, for I do not believe that the Enemy will hold onto His word. I know the paths; they are not entirely safe, but I will lead you and protect you, no matter the cost, until the very end, be it death or escape. But hear me: I love you, Itarillё the Fair, more than anything that is left in this world; without you, there will be nothing for me to live for. To the oaths I gave you I add this: if the Death takes you, it will take me also. Now, rest; I will make preparations, and we will set forth before the Sunrise.” He bowed low, then kissed her hand and departed.

He was a fool to leave her alone.

 

-*-*-*-

  
As he was ascending the stairs, Maeglin recalled a scene from his childhood: his parents have just had a quarrel, and he sat beside his father, and father, answering one of his hesitant questions, said: “I love your mother, son of Aredhel; and I will always love her, and I would forgive her anything that is not a betrayal.” And the betrayal he never forgave, and died with a curse on his lips; but Itarillё was not as Eöl, and her heart could be moved by pity. And, perhaps, when Maeglin would have carried her away from flames and smokes and ruins, she would let him stay beside her, as the only one of her kin left in the Great Lands, and as her guardian, and would not hold him in hatred. But he never learned it, for when he landed his hand on Itarillё’s shoulder to wake her, her skin had already been cold.

Maeglin slowly approached her side of the bed, knelt before his Lady just as he did at the dusk, and kissed her closed eyes.

He took no heed of some distant cries as he set the chamber on fire. Neither he took heed of those servants of Morgoth that were out there, patrolling the streets or carrying some urgent messages of their Captains. His black sword, unsheathed in his hand, was his sigil and token, and the creatures of Darkness stepped aside before the light of his eyes.

Thus he came to the part of the Wall which was not yet destroyed, the very part where both Eöl his father and Tuor his enemy had met their end. He stood alone there, looking upon the City which lied down, crumbled, devastated, black where it had been white once, covered with shadows which fled not before the approaching dawn. He closed his eyes, and the Wall was empty when the Sun came.

**Author's Note:**

> First version published: August 20th, 2015.  
> Bonus info: Earendil actually survived the fall from the Wall!


End file.
